A Tiger in India
by I.Weave.Dreams
Summary: In the heart of modern-day India, slaves are still owned and trained as Gladiators. Jim Moriarty purchases an unruly slave and promises him freedom should he prove himself in the arena, and perhaps more, should he prove himself useful elsewhere...


**Author's Note: Watched the movie Gladiator the other day for the first time in forever. Couldn't help but think of Jim and Seb of course. Here is the result. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: Don't know, don't own.**

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><p>"As you can see, sir, my men are the finest slaves in all of India."<p>

Jim Moriarty stood back from the wooden bleachers, eyeing the men standing on them. Dawn had just broken across the sky, making the air the coolest it would be all day. Jim didn't notice either way. Dust swirled up as a warm wind blew through, collecting on his Westwood suit.

"You're the first to see them, as promised," the slave-owner continued. He was an American, slightly overweight, and as tanned as the ground beneath their feet. Jim knew that this man wasn't actually the owner of these slaves. He was just a representative for Jim, as the Indian family who owned them thought it would be more 'comforting' to work with someone who spoke 'his language'. They didn't know that Jim knew Hindi, as well as several other languages that were local to different parts of India. However, it wasn't a battle Jim cared to fight, so he let this man pretend he was King of the Castle for the day.

Jim walked forward and began pacing the length of the bleachers, scanning the men. They were completely naked. There were men of all different races standing there, but the most prominent were Indians. Some were fat while others were wrapped in muscle, their arms and thighs bulging. They were all rough-looking, with long, scraggly hair, and unkempt facial hair. And they were dirty, and not all of it was dust. And that wasn't to mention the smell…

"And these men have been trained." Jim said. It wasn't a question.

"Yes, they have all had some training. You see, that is what makes our men the best. We have first pick from all the prisons, but before we put them on the market, we train them for six weeks. Our men are already well on their way to being warriors!" The American spoke enthusiastically, using grand hand gestures. Spittle shot from his mouth every few words, and Jim considered sewing his lips shut later, if he had the time.

Jim had found out about this sport a little over two years ago. And ever since then, it'd become his favorite distraction. Because here, in the heart of India, slaves were still owned. But it was more than that. They'd revived an old game that was thought to have died out thousands of years ago. Here they fought gladiators.

Most of them were men from prison, sentenced to death for their crimes. Murderers, rapists, thieves, you name it. While others got into it to make money, enslaving themselves for a certain amount of years. All walks of life could be found in the Pit of Hell, as this part of India had been lovingly named.

"Would you like to test any of them out?"

Jim smiled to himself, and ran his finger down the chest of a bronzed man who was well over six and a half feet tall. A muscle bunched in the man's cheek, and Jim threw his head back and laughed. The sound was more like a cackle to the others' ears, and caused a chill to run down their spines despite their reputations as being soulless men. There were many meanings behind the term 'test them out'. Some used this as an opportunity to pit a pair of slaves against each other in a trial fight to see how they did. While others chose more _intimate_ activities. They weren't standing here with their cocks out for _nothing_.

Homosexuality wasn't frowned upon here as it was in other places. That was because slaves and gladiators weren't seen as humans. They were merely objects to be used as entertainment and pleasure. To fuck a gladiator didn't mean you were gay, you were only using your property for your enjoyment.

Not that Jim cared either way. He'd fucked many gladiators these past two years. There was just something so…_primal_ about them. He especially liked the ones who were heterosexual, and the homophobic ones even more. He loved owning them, fucking them, making them his. The more they struggled, the harder Jim became. Of course he liked to be fucked as well, and he'd had his fair share of that here.

He'd owned several gladiators. He'd pick them and then have them trained in his own private facility. Most people who bought slaves owned 'companies' as they were called now. Establishments that housed many gladiators where they were trained together. Jim preferred more intimate settings, buying only a few at a time. And his gladiators always won. He'd fuck them, get fucked in return, drown them in luxury, and then when he was through, he'd have them killed. He'd pit them in the arena against impossible odds. Because no one he owned died until he said they did.

He'd had his last one killed about a week ago. He was looking for new toys to play with now.

Jim swept his eyes over a man with a particularly large cock, wondering if he could fit his mouth around it, and if not, well then, he'd just have to shorten it. Unfortunately, he didn't think the man would be much up for sex when he was bleeding to death. _Pity_.

Jim's eyes floated up to the top row. So far he had a few in mind, but none were really standing out to him. His gaze stopped on the last man on the right side of the row. He had long, shoulder length dirty blonde hair, and a scraggly beard covering his face. He could only see part of his torso from this vantage point, but he did notice tattoos on the man's arms, clearly with military origins.

"You," Jim said simply, no pointing or asking the American to bring him down. A few of the men around him shifted, looking at each other, wondering if Jim was looking at them. But the man didn't ask questions, didn't ask Jim to clarify if it was him Jim was referring to. He moved easily off the bleachers. Jim noted that the other men seemed to move consciously out of his way.

The man stood before him, his face expressionless, if not a little bored. Jim assessed him, noting the lean body frame, and well-endowed nether regions. He stood squarely, and again Jim read 'military' in his stance.

"What are your crimes?" he asked the man. The American tittered next to him. Usually buyers didn't speak to the slaves directly. They were supposed to be above them. That wasn't how Jim operated. He was above everyone and no one. A man convicted didn't make him any less a man. It wasn't out of respect Jim was doing it, no, he did it because he could. He didn't like to play the childish games that the upperclassmen liked to do. Obsessed with money and popularity and power. No, he identified more with the scum of the Earth than the salt of it.

"Dishonorable discharge from the military." The man's voice was gruff and honest. There wasn't a hint of shame on his face. Jim also noted that he had an English accent. And surprisingly, he couldn't quite place it. It was what Jim called a 'dirty' accent. There were certain types of people who had them; they were the people who had traveled and spent time in the darkest, dirtiest places of the world. They'd seen and done things that normal people didn't. And as a result, their natural accent became affected by it. Thus producing something completely new.

"What for?" Jim asked, his natural lilt seeping into his voice. That always happened when he was feeling particularly happy.

"Shot my commanding officer."

Jim grinned, and it was feral. "Why?"

"Because he was a bloody cunt," the man said, matter-of-factly.

"Wonderful!" Jim trilled. "Oh, yes, I like you." His eyes narrowed like a hunter eyeing its prey. That look normally shot fear into the heart of the person on the receiving end. The man didn't quiver with fear, however, something seemed to spark to life in his eyes. His head cocked slightly, and now it appeared as if he was actually _looking_ at Jim. "What's your name."

"Oh, no, they have no names," the American intervened. "You name them whatever you like. They are yours to own." He was smiling proudly, as if he was providing Jim with some great gift of knowledge.

Jim glared, and the man's expression wilted. "This is not the first time I have bought a slave," his tone had become deadly. Yes, he would definitely be making time to sew this man's mouth shut. He turned back to the slave. "Your name," he demanded, leftover venom coloring his words.

"Sebastian Moran, sir." Sebastian's eyes widened slightly, apparently caught of guard by the formality he found himself now addressing Jim with. Jim smirked. That sealed the deal. Despite this man shooting his commanding officer, it was clear that he knew loyalty, he just needed someone worth following.

Jim turned to the American. "How much?"

The American's eyes shifted unsurely between Sebastian and Jim, his hands fluttering together. "Look, normally I wouldn't tell a buyer this, but I would advise you against buying this slave."

Jim quirked an eyebrow. "And why is that?"

The man looked around hastily, and then wetted his lips. "He does not respond well to orders. He is undisciplined. He cannot be controlled even through punishment."

"Then why did you pick him to sell?" Jim asked coolly, although he'd already guessed the answer.

"He was not a prisoner. He volunteered, to make some money. He's already killed two of the other slaves. We would have killed him already, but we were looking to make money back for the men he killed. He is not safe to put with others. I was hoping to pass him off on an unsuspecting buyer, but I have heard of your reputation, Mr. Moriarty, and I would not wish there to be bad blood between us." The man had started to sweat, and with good reason.

Jim found him repulsive and pathetic. Perhaps he would put Sebastian to work right away, test out the man's resolve. He wondered how Sebastian was with sewing needles.

"Then allow me to take him off your hands for you," Jim said graciously, smiling for the man's benefit.

The American continued to titter nervously despite Jim's friendly display. "I really must insist-"

"And I must insist on a price before I make all of you into shoes," Jim said casually, as if he was just discussing the weather.

The man swallowed nervously. "Two-hundred-and-fifty American dollars."

Jim laughed out loud, delighted. This man was practically giving away their best slave for nothing. Jim had a feeling he could have wiped his ass with a one dollar bill and the man would have taken it, just to be rid of this Sebastian Moran.

Two-hundred-and-fifty American dollars equated to about 12,556 rupees. The average human being would not respond well to being told that their life was only worth $250. However, Sebastian Moran looked like he could care less.

Jim went into the American's office to make the payment, and when he returned, Sebastian Moran was dressed in a pair of blue jeans that looked as if they were being held together by a thread, and a blue and white checkered shirt that was missing most of its buttons.

"You are now the owner of Slave 118442. It was a pleasure doing business with you Mr. Moriarty, I wish you and your gladiator the best of luck in the tournaments to come." The American held out a hand, which Jim didn't shake. Without a word he headed for his car.

It was only due to his extremely sharp senses that Jim knew that his new toy was following. Sebastian hardly made a sound as they crossed the dirt-covered streets. When they reached the car, Jim turned around. He looked Sebastian up and down, disgust visible in the downward curve of his lips. "Take it off," he said.

Without question, Sebastian stripped back down to nothing. Jim's eyes raked over the man's body again, his eyes now alight with satisfaction. "Much better," he purred, circling his pet. He stood behind his back, and a trailed a pale, bony finger between Sebastian's shoulder blades, down to the dip in his back, slipping his finger into the divot of his cheeks before removing it quickly. Sebastian made no physical reaction.

He noticed then, the faint, slightly raised pieces of flesh on Sebastian's back. Scars from a whip, Jim had no doubt. The thought of Sebastian bloody, his back flayed and his skin ragged, caused heat to shoot straight to Jim's groin. Oh, yes, he would be punishing Sebastian very soon, for some reason or another. Jim couldn't help himself, and even if he could, he didn't care to try; he trailed his tongue up one of the scars, the largest and most prominent one. His right hand dug into Sebastian's shoulder, raking down his back. Sebastian shuddered at that. Jim knew it wasn't from pain, so that only left one other option. Jim stared at the violent red lines that seared Sebastian's tanned skin. They faded after a moment, much to Jim's disappointment. "I'll be making those permanent," Jim whispered in Sebastian's ear. "Very soon."

He walked back around so that they were facing each other again. Sebastian was half-hard already. Jim's smile was hungry. He clasped his hands behind his back, and leaned forward so that his face was mere inches from Sebastian's. "We're going to have a lot of fun, you and I." Dark brown eyes searched lagoon blue ones. "So long as you don't disappoint me." It was a promise and a threat all wrapped in one. Sebastian said nothing, because Jim wasn't asking him a question. Or giving him permission to speak.

"Is that clear, _Colonel_?" Jim said the word slowly, letting it roll off his tongue, slick as silk and as warm as melted chocolate.

Sebastian reacted to that. His face hardened as he fought his surprise. Jim read it plain as day. "I know everything, darling." He leaned back against the car. "And just because I like you," he looked down at his nails, "I will tell you, I never ask a question twice." His eyes flickered up again, and in them held the stories of slaves who had not been so lucky as to receive this warning, men whose hearts Jim had burned out just because he didn't care to repeat himself.

"Crystal," Sebastian replied, "Master."

Jim tutted and shook his head. "Oh, no, no, that won't do. I never liked being called 'Master'. Too medieval," he waved his hand dismissively through the air. "Call me, Boss."

Sebastian nodded. Jim licked his lips and leaned in again. "And if you play your cards right, Sebby, I'll let you call me, 'Daddy'," Jim teased, and then leaned back, cackling. Jim's version of teasing was like a Great White playing hide-and-seek with a goldfish. Most people found it terrifying, but Jim watched as a nearly invisible shudder ran through the man's body.

Jim was done playing for now. He produced a keychain from his pocket and pressed a button on it. The trunk popped. "There are some clothes in there that should fit you. You can drive, right." It wasn't a question. He tossed Sebastian the keys and got in on the passenger's side.

Any sane person wouldn't trust a slave with the keys to their $500,000 car. But the thing was, Jim Moriarty wasn't sane, and he did trust Sebastian Moran. He knew this man was his now, and not just because he'd paid $250 dollars for him. Trust had to be earned, and Jim had garnered it from Sebastian the moment he addressed him instead of the American. Jim Moriarty knew many things, but the one thing he understood most, was people. That's why he continued to beat Sherlock Holmes over and over again.

They drove in silence, Sebastian now sporting a pair of black slacks, and a navy blue button down shirt. Jim's house was lavish. He spared no expense. It was very much reminiscent of his flats in the UK. What could he say, he was just _so _sentimental. However, his house was decorated with a few of the local fabrics, and his walls were adorned with the work of various Indian artists.

Jim sent Sebastian away to be cleaned up. The man would first take a shower, and then he'd receive a hair cut, and then that beard would have to go. Gladiators had to look presentable in the arena. Not that Jim cared about that, but he wasn't particularly fond of the caveman look.

Jim sat on one of the couches in his living room, sipping a wine glass full of vodka. He'd been given information on Sebastian Moran as soon as the American had uttered his name. He knew the man's whole life story. His parents had been wealthy, and he'd gone to a private school. He'd been kicked out though, for fighting. He was kicked out of several schools after that. Eventually he was sent to boot camp and went on to join the military.

But Jim didn't need to be told he'd been raised in an upper-class family and attended some fancy school. He could see the man was intelligent. It was clear as day in his sharp eyes. And it wasn't just book-smarts, either. This man knew the way of the world, and that's what really mattered.

Jim looked at his watch. A quarter past eight. He downed the rest of his vodka and pushed himself to his feet. His head went light for a moment, but he didn't stumble in the slightest as he walked down the hallway. He made his way up the grand staircase, and continued walking, humming loudly until he reached his destination.

He walked into the bathroom to find Sebastian sitting in a chair, his hair already cut, most of his beard trimmed off, and his face lathered with foam, ready for the rest to be shaved off. An Indian man stood behind Sebastian, polishing his blade.

"Leave," Jim dismissed the man in Hindi. The man bowed, and handed the blade to Jim on his way out.

Sebastian's eyes met his in the reflection of the mirror. "You're looking better," Jim said as he walked up behind him. Sebastian said nothing, just blinked back at him.

"Don't be shy," Jim teased flirtatiously, flashing a set of sharp teeth. Like a panther flirting with its prey. He pressed the blade to Sebastian's cheek. Sebastian eyed him, but if he was worried, he didn't show it. "You may speak freely. Loyalty is coveted, obedience is boring."

Most didn't understand the difference, but they were as clear as day to Jim. Like oil and water. Loyalty bound you to someone, willingly. They listened to you because they believed in your words. They followed you because they believed in you. They belonged to you, in some way. Obedience was loyalty without the will. It was taken, forced. The slave owners here didn't care about loyalty. As long as the gladiators did exactly as they were told, they were happy. They didn't want the gladiators to speak to them as if they were equals. Didn't want them to speak at all. Jim was different.

Jim ran the blade down Sebastian's face, not being particularly careful. "Why India?" Jim asked, his morning success putting him in a conversational mood. He was referring, of course, to the fact that Sebastian had fled after shooting his commanding officer.

Sebastian shrugged, although he was careful to keep his neck straight as Jim ran the blade across his chin. "I knew a guy who could get me here. Besides, English pigs don't like the heat," he deadpanned, but a smirk crept onto his face. By pigs, he meant the police, of course.

Jim smirked in return. "You were a sniper," he said. "Still any good?"

"Better than any of the whiny brats still suckin' on their mums' tits they have in the British army these days. Better than the ones who aren't, too." There was no hint of bragging in his voice, only honesty, and distain.

Jim didn't say anything after that. He was working on Sebastian's neck now. He did the final swipe, and then wiped the blade of the towel resting on the chair's arm. He stared at Sebastian's now bare neck, which looked significantly smoother than the rest of his scarred skin.

Jim pressed the blade to Sebastian's neck, starting near his jaw, and drew a line down about two inches in length. Sebastian grunted, but didn't protest. It wasn't a deep cut, but the skin turned pink, and then blood spilled over, beginning to trickle down his neck. Jim leaned forward, his tongue darting out to lick up the trail. He licked his lips, staring at Sebastian's reflection in the mirror. The blood flow stopped for a moment, before spilling over again, trailing down more slowly this time. Sebastian watched back, his eyes bright with the same heat as Jim's.

And just like that, Jim's moods switched. "How'd I do?" Jim held his arms out, looking and sounding like a ten-year-old asking for approval on their art project.

"Shit," Sebastian replied bluntly, leaning forward to examine Jim's work more closely in the mirror.

Jim gave a mock-disheartened sigh, before smiling cheerily. "Well, practice will make perfect, darling."

Sebastian laughed. "You're an even crazier bastard than I thought you were if you think I'm letting you come near my face again with a razor, Boss."

Jim just smirked as he watched Sebastian wipe away the blood on his neck with a towel. They both knew that there was no 'letting' Jim do anything. Jim would do what he wanted. He owned Sebastian now. Sebastian could physically overpower Jim, if he wanted to. Jim knew that. But that wasn't the point. Sebastian wouldn't, and they both knew that as well.

Jim left Sebastian to shave properly and explore the rest of the house. He gave Sebastian the day to rest and settle in.

Because soon, Jim smiled to himself, soon Sebastian would be entering in the arena.

And he had the perfect opponent in mind.

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><p><strong>So, how'd you like it? Should I continue, or leave it as a one-shot? Thanks for reading!<strong>


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